Waiting To Be Seen
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Sometimes our actions have consequences and guilt can weigh heavily on the heart and the mind. It may even affect how you are perceived. Rated K plus. Chapter 2 for thedragonaunt! Sorry - not Sherlolly
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Dear Pat! Happy Birthday! This is as close as I will ever get to Sherlolly. Just for you:)**

**It's patemalah21's birthday. I asked for 3 words. She gave me 3 with the option of using a fourth. The fourth gave me the idea. The words were **_**inundate**_**, **_**corporeal**_**, **_**stimulating**_**. The bonus word was **_**macerated**_**. Now macerate is an interesting word. It is a bone preparation technique used to clean skeletons by decomposition in a closed box, it can mean to make soft by soaking or steeping in a liquid, but it also means **_**to cause to waste away by or as if by excessive fasting**_**. So my twitchy little brain started thinking **_**What if you wasted away because of neglect? What if you wasted away because no one paid attention to you?**_** And then came**_** What if you wasted away because you felt guilty about something? **_**So here is the story. Enjoy!**

**Don't own. Yada, yada:P**

Waiting To Be Seen

It was two years to the day after Sherlock had jumped when Molly disappeared in full view of another pathologist, a grieving family and a custodian. To be honest the family was in the other room, but still. It was not unlike any other day, except no one could see her. It really wasn't so terribly surprising to her. With her quiet ways and her gentle manner, she was often ignored, her beauty rejected, her kind nature dismissed, her sharp intelligence overlooked so it was really just a natural progression to go from a state of being **corporeal** to a state of being insubstantial.

It had actually started out rather gradually, a slow wasting away of her personality, as she became **macerated** and void, a negative space. Once flesh and blood next, worse than a ghost, the skeletal remains of her subsistence scattered and left to dry. A ghost would have at least had the possibility of being seen and a poltergeist could have moved objects to let people know she was around, but she didn't even have that.

She first noticed this odd state when she asked McGuffin, the other pathologist, to pass her the chart on the Smyth killing. She wondered, as she often did since Sherlock's disappearance, what he might have made of the unnatural position Mr. Smyth had found himself in on becoming deceased. McGuffin ignored her so she walked over to the desk where it lay, muttering about the rudeness of some people and reached for the forms. It came as a bit of a shock when her hand passed through the paper and the clipboard on which they lay. She looked at her hand, a hand she could see perfectly and she looked at the paper. Molly was not one to give up, so she tried again. She was unable to grasp the clipboard or the report.

"Well Molly Hooper, this is a fine mess you have made for yourself! Now what?"

McGuffin of course continued to ignore her, not even noticing if she were there, not remembering if she had ever been there, not even a blip in his thought process.

She looked around the room. There was no reaction from the custodian mopping up the remains of the last autopsy; there was definitely no reaction from Mr. Smyth, for which she was oddly grateful. She popped her head into the waiting area and there was no reaction from Mr. Smyth's grieving family, which in itself may not have meant anything, as they were deep in the process of comforting one another.

If Sherlock had still been around with his sarcasm and biting wit, she may have been able to retain a hold on reality, his **stimulating **presence and his instance on needing her, even of it was for his own ends, would have tethered her. John too would have kept her anchored even though she often ignored him in the hopes of attracting his flatmate's attention, his natural need to wrap everyone in his sunny disposition would have ensured her continuing existence. Sherlock wasn't around and John, believing him to be dead, never came to Bart's, too much pain & tragedy associated with the building. He had come close, in his own way, to joining her in insubstantial existence, but friends and relatives, realizing that he was in a fragile state, had grounded him. She had avoided his presence due to guilt by omission. If she had at any point reached out to him perhaps his personality would have shored up hers.

Now she was just annoyed. Not many realized what a strong individual she actually was and she was more than a little put out by the thought that her continued state of existence was dependent on being noticed by people.

She sighed and then gave herself a shake. It was no good to sit about and mope. She left the room and ventured out into the corridors of Bart's, passing by one person after another, none the wiser. She wandered down to the cafeteria and not seeing anyone she knew well enough to miss her, went out on to the street. She realized she would need to pay special attention to the traffic and to fellow pedestrians because no one could see her and would run her down or walk into her. Of course they could simply go through her. She was insubstantial. Trying to hold the chart had shown her that, but she wasn't about to take a chance. If she happened to be hit by a bus or a lorry no one would even know.

She wandered down to the nearest Tube station and managed to get through the stalls and on to the next train. She really had no destination in mind; she just wanted to find someone, anyone who would or could acknowledge her existence.

Before she knew what she was doing she had made her way to stand in front of 221B Baker Street. She hadn't been there since the ill-fated Christmas party, where she had stood up to Sherlock for his horrible treatment of her and she remembered his surprising apology. It still made her blush to think that the others at the party may have misconstrued the sounds that had emitted from the mobile he had held in his hand. She had not come here since, not even after Sherlock had left, not to comfort John or pay her respects to Mrs. Hudson. She would do it again in a heartbeat, she would have done it a million times over, but it didn't mean to say she didn't regret the consequence of those actions to John and Mrs. Hudson and even to Greg Lestrade.

Thoughts of John made her wince. She really should have stopped by and checked in on him. As she thought these heavy, guilt ridden thoughts, she felt less her. She held up her hand again and noticed there was a definite leaking of colour and material. She was just beginning to be able to make out figments of the pavement through her hand and she was becoming seriously worried.

She stood outside and stared at the building, wondering if she would be able to simply pass through the door or if she would need to wait for someone to leave or enter the building. It was just midday, so chances were good that John was at work, but maybe Mrs. Hudson was out and about. She really was surprised at herself for ending up here of all places, but maybe, perhaps, Sherlock's absence was a connection to her lack of substance. Or was it possible that the guilt she felt over not telling John what had happened was causing her to disappear? Perhaps it really wasn't because people didn't notice her, but because she had failed to notice the aftermath of a terrible but necessary lie.

She needed to get in and talk to John.

As she stood there, she became aware of a presence settled across the street, the one perpendicular to Baker Street, joining it in a T.

A shadowy figure stood in the lee of the building, head titled, looking up at the first floor. There was something in the manner of the figure which made her grasp in an instant it was Sherlock. When she became conscious of this fact, she took in his posture and could see there was a certain longing emanating from his slouch against the building. She had not heard from him in 2 years. Sherlock who returned on the day she became invisible.

She looked carefully before crossing the road and stood in front of the man she had lied and forged legal paperwork for. His gaze seemed too intent upon the building across the street to notice her. She sighed again, her hopes at being noticed dashed once more.

A rumble of a familiar, deep, sensuous voice whispered upon her ears.

"Well, Miss Hooper, it seems that you have created a bit of a situation for yourself."

"You can see me?" she asked, surprised evident in her voice.

"No, but there is a disturbance in the air near me and I am aware of the odour of your perfume, Tresor by Lancome. A suitably charming and floral scent for one such as yourself."

"Oh," she said, for really there was nothing else to say.

"So no one can see you or is aware of your existence? That seems to be a sad statement. Why on earth would you allow this to happen, Miss Hooper?"

"Molly."

"What?"

"My name is Molly."

"I know your name is Molly."

"Then why don't you use it?"

Sherlock, who had been looking in the approximate location of where her eyes should be, merely shrugged, although his gaze seemed shadowed.

"There did not seem to be any particular reason why I should."

She nodded thoughtful, forgetting momentarily that he could not see her.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked softly.

"What am I going to do about being invisible? How on earth should I know? I don't even know how I got into this state." She huffed, angry with him, the situation and the feelings that **inundated **her when setting eyes once more upon the object of her unrequited love.

"Well obviously your need to stay hidden and not to be noticed, remorse for lying to those close to me, having to see John go through the trauma of his friend committing what he assumed was suicide in front of him, has caused your guilt to manifest itself in a most peculiar fashion."

"Oh what the hell do you know?"

"Because I too am suffering from a similar predicament. I have the need to go and see John and explain the whys and the wherefores of the past 2 years but I am afraid that he won't be able to see me or to see the reasons for why I did what I did and therefore will refuse to see me."

"That makes a twisted sense I guess," she said quietly, turning her head to look up at the window above Speedy's, wondering whether anyone there would welcome either of them into the flat.

She turned back to Sherlock. "Well?" she asked.

He glanced in her general direction. "Well what?" seemingly unable to deduce her intent or perhaps allowing her to tell him in her own fashion. Possibly he had changed in his absence.

"Shall we venture forth, good sir, to see if John's forgiveness will break the spell?"

Sherlock smiled a soft smile, "If you are brave enough dear lady, then aye, let us do so."

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and crossed the street. Molly followed behind, as they walked up to the door of 221B.

He glanced in her direction once more before raising his hand to the knocker.

"Molly," he said, his voice warmer than she remembered. "You don't need anyone to see you to be who you are. You don't need John to see you to be forgiven. You did what you had to in order to help me. I will always be grateful." He bent close in a guess as to where her cheek might be and he once more bestowed a chaste kiss on her cheek. She flushed and then she smiled at him, even though he could not see it.

The two waited quietly, listening intently for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Waiting for the man who needed to absolve them both.

Waiting together.

Waiting to be seen and forgiven.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: The second chapter of this is for the wonderful thedragonaunt. Again, sorry, not Sherlolly:D She gave me disparate, desperate and diaspora! Most fun!**

**Thanks to johnsarmylady for helping me to get Molly to behave!**

**I do not own. If I did tda I would let you visit:D**

Molly stood resolutely beside Sherlock as they heard the sound of a slow, tired tread approach the door. Part of her wished to flee, lose herself, the knowledge they were about to face the one person who was damaged more than the rest in the deception of Sherlock's fake suicide weighed her down.

But Molly was brave, far braver than most gave her credit for. She squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin. The door slowly creaked open and a diminished figure stood on the steps and blinked, wonder and distress upon his face as he gaped at the only entity he could see. Despite the lack of familiar apparel and the ginger cast to his hair, John knew Sherlock immediately. He squinted and raised a hand to rub at his eyes and then looked again.

As awareness replaced confusion, Molly saw the moment John understood that Sherlock standing there meant Sherlock was alive and not dead and for that to happen then some trickery must have been involved. Ripples of anger slowly spread upon the shorter man's face. His stance was rigid, rage and hurt battling each other for placement upon his visage, **disparate** yet related to the events of two years ago.

Sherlock said one word.

"John"

John said five.

"No! This is not happening."

And the door slammed heavily in the resurrected man's face.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he leaned forward, placed a solemn hand and a weary head against the door. He paused, grabbed the handle and entered into the building he had once called home, leaving without a backwards glance to the negative space that was Molly Hooper.

Molly stood there, the impression of slight abandonment filling her, not quite the feeling of **diaspora** she could have immersed herself in, had she not realized Sherlock's one focus was and always would be John. He did not intentionally or cruelly forget about her as he might have done, once upon a time. It was simply that someone else mattered more.

Fortunately for her Sherlock, in his haste, had left the door ajar and she was able to slip in sideways. She stood looking up the stairs he had climbed just ahead of her. She could hear angry shouting from where she was and quiet murmurs in response.

She followed after and entered into the first floor flat to see the two men her existence depended on staring at each other, one with a bloodied lip, the other nursing a bruised fist.

Neither noticed her. The story of her life.

She cleared her throat a little. "Please don't, John."

John looked up even more startled than he had when seeing a living Sherlock.

"Molly?" he said, surprise and confusion evident, his eyes roamed the room.

"Over here," she said as cheerily as she could, always trying to look on the bright side. John's eyes widened and he glanced at the man he was angry with, possibly more angry than he had ever been with anyone else.

"Oh, hmmm, yes. I know you can't see me. Supposedly it has something to do with guilt. Or at least that's what we think. But please don't be mad. Well I guess you can be mad. Most people would be. Sherlock did it for you, you know."

John could not look more confused if he tried, his mouth opened and closed rather fishlike, Sherlock, in his usual careless way, was quick to point out.

"Shut it, you." John growled at him. "Molly, what the hell? Why can't I see you?"

"Oh, well you see, I knew about Sherlock's jump. I sort of helped him and it has made me disappear."

John's face went white with pain.

"You knew?" He said in a furiously soft voice. It was far more painful to listen to than had he yelled at her.

"Um, yes. But has he explained why? Have you heard him out?"

John simply looked stunned. He abruptly sat down and ran his hands through his hair. "God, no! Explained what? Explained that he jumped in front of me? That I thought he was dead? That I couldn't…couldn't save him." His voice trailed off and the hand in his hair covered his mouth.

"That he did it to save you. You and Greg and Mrs. Hudson." Molly decided enough with the nonsense and got to the heart of the matter.

John shook his head and looked up at his friend.

"Is that true?" he asked, eyes gleaming with an amalgamation of destruction and wonder.

"Yes," came the answer.

John looked down at his clasped hands. "You should have told me."

"I couldn't."

"No, not you. Her."

Molly felt a faint blush creep upon her skin. It was disconcerting, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow in her direction, as if he was aware she was embarrassed.

_Well, of course, he probably is_, she thought.

"I'd promised. I am so sorry John. But you can't break a promise." She paused and thought. "What would you have done? If you had been in my place? What would you do for Sherlock Holmes?"

John just stared and then a slight convulsion went through his frame. It didn't look like there was much holding him together anymore, insubstantial in his own way, thinner than he had been two years ago.

"Everything," he whispered.

He turned to his friend, his flatmate, his consulting detective, his Samuel Johnson.

"You really couldn't have let me in on your parlor trick?"

Sherlock shrugged, an odd look on his face. "No. There wasn't time. I was **desperate** and desperation can kill you. I too would do everything." He stepped closer to John. "There is only one John Watson." There was a long pause as the two men stood and stared, eye contact maintained, a plea in one set, the beginnings of acceptance in the other. Sherlock broke the thick silence. "And if it had gone the way it was supposed to I wouldn't have had to jump. But it didn't. I had to be prepared you see. I am really very sorry, John."

John nodded. "I am still extremely angry with you. I may be extremely angry with you for a very long time, but I …guess I understand." He shrugged, still vibrated with the shock and confusion of the return. "We aren't finished with this Sherlock, just so you know."

He turned to where he sensed Molly's presence. "Molly? I know how Sherlock can make you do things you never thought you'd do in a million years. He tends to blow over you and through you and whirl your emotions and thoughts and before you know it, you are rushing across London to send a text. You are not to blame." He crossed over to where she was sat and felt for her hand. She lifted it up and met him so he could feel it, despite her invisibility.

He tugged and pulled her to her feet. She felt his arms go around her and he hugged her briefly and in an action echoing Sherlock, kissed her cheek. She reacted with surprise and whispered, "Can you see me?"

"You were never really invisible Molly and it wasn't my forgiveness you required so much as your own. You just camouflaged yourself with fear and remorse and uncertainty. I can see you, now. The question remains, can you?"

Molly turned to where the mirror hung over the fireplace. She could see John standing there his arms hugging something. The longer she stared the more solid the something became until she was indeed back.

John beamed at her, his eyes still watery and the pain near the surface but not all-consuming as it had been. "You are a brave and marvelous wonder, Molly Hooper. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You should show this side of yourself to the world more often. I understand and forgive you."

Molly's blushed deepened. "Oh, well, it's all good. Thank you, John. I am really very sorry."

He shook her lightly. "Enough. We need to celebrate the return of Sherlock Holmes. Have you told Mrs. Hudson yet?"

Sherlock paled. "No. I was…could you…no."

John grinned, looking more like himself than he had in the last two years.

"Well this should be interesting." He looked toward Molly. "Will you come?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No. No, I have things to do now. Being invisible can give you quite a need to be observed. I think I will go for a walk along the Thames and perhaps see the world." She smiled and left, skipping down the stairs of the flat, leaving the two men to work out their emotions, to get over their awkwardness and to break the news to Mrs. Hudson. As much as Molly wanted to see that, she felt the need to be with people.

Down the street toward the tube station she wandered, the heart beating in her chest lighter and more at ease than it had been in the last two years.

Today was a new beginning. Who knew what tomorrow would bring.


End file.
